


Stress Relief

by SburbanMom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Pool Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SburbanMom/pseuds/SburbanMom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slick heads back to base after a rather trying tryst with his kismesis. Droog, of course, helps him unwind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress Relief

The bluish hue of the bunker cast its somber gaze over everything in sight. Moonlight bled in through the curtains, giving the room a sort of strange ethereal feeling. A pile of weapons glinted off in the corner like a museum display, hardly touched but dangerously beautiful and deliberate. The only man in the room was quiet as he paged through the newspaper his associates had been kind enough to pick up.   
Well. Perhaps he wasn't the only man.  
"Slick. Ya gonna stand over there broodin' by the door foreva'?"  
"I ain't broodin'! Ya sayin' a man can't fuckin' enjoy the sight of a pile a knives for a while? Droog, you're a damn heathen, ya hear me?"  
Droog folded up his newspaper and shot Slick a look over the high back of the couch. "Get ova' here, christ in a sandbox. Ya look like a woman tryin' to kill 'er beloved husband. Sit down. Have a drink."  
"Don't need none a these formalities, Droog. Fuck off."  
Droog shrugged and reopened his newspaper, licking his finger to turn the page. Slick discarded his coat and hung it on the ebony stain coat rack beside his hat and what was undoubtedly somebody's butterfly knife. Oh, right. His.  
He took a seat on the chair adjacent to the loveseat Droog had stretched himself over. He snapped up one of the many magazines on the table, disrupting a gun and sending it clattering to the floor. Droog looked up and glowered at Slick. "I invited ya over to make peaceful conversation. What's ya problem?"  
"I ain't got a problem, Droog. The only problem I got is you bein' a nosy piece a' shit!"  
The taller of the two sighed and folded his newspaper into neat quarters. "Sn0wman, ah. You're takin' out your rage on the rest of us, eh? Real classy."  
"Listen, Droog, you get black with a sadistic bitch like her, mebbe I'll have a little pity. Until then, I ain't givin' you shit."  
"Sayin' that as if we told you to join that idiot parade. We didn't."  
Slick grumbled something unintelligible and began paging through his magazine, propping his feet on the card table. Droog got to his feet and grabbed his cuestick from beside the couch, bouncing a chalk in his hand. "Slick. Join me in a game?"  
"Whaddya think? Of course not."  
Droog shrugged and sauntered over to the pool table. Most of the balls had been irreparably mutilated in some way or another, most of them by Slick. The brunt of his abuse had been targeted towards the black eight ball, which sat on a shelf. It had become so riddled with scratching and bullet holes that using it was futile. They had long since substituted it with a plain black ball, similar to the cue but of a negative shade.  
After collecting the ceramic spheres and racking them up with a clatter, he removed the triangle deftly and hung it on the edge of the table. "Slick. Didja wanna break the set?"  
"I already told ya, I don't wanna play your stupid game!"  
"Hm. Alright, it's ya decision." Droog shrugged, letting out a deep breath. A solo game would have to suffice. He broke the set in a single perfect shot, staring down the cuestick with protracted focus. Despite what he might have said, Slick had meandered over to watch him, face cemented in a concentrated glare.  
Droog had always had a certain elegance to him, but that poise was magnified when he was in a state of concentration. His movements were fluid, his eyes drilling passively into their target. Slick couldn't help but develop a morbid fascination.  
The only sound between the two of them was Droog's breathing and footsteps, and the clicks and clatters of the balls colliding mathematically on the lush felt. Droog had gone with solids, and he was aiming for the replacement eight ball when Slick grabbed his arm. He looked up, slight annoyance clouding his stare, but even his eyes weren't open long. Slick's mouth was pressed to him in an instant of passion.  
There had always been an agreement between the two that their efforts would never pull them quadrantwards. No matter the disillusioned shade of their activities, they planted their roots firmly in neutrality. It was sometimes hard to believe the two weren't involved, with the way they knew each others mouths like an engineer's hard hands knew the cogs of a clock. But there had never been a single word to steer them otherwise.  
Before Slick was aware at all, he had been flipped to sit on the pool table. Slick wasn't a short man, but he wasn't of a grand stature either. Droog was slim built and tall, with a delicate precision to the way he was put together. When Slick was perched on the table, they were on more equal grounds.  
"You drive me fuckin' nuts, Droog, you know that? Movin' around like some sort a fuckin' ballerina." Slick hissed against Droog's lips, and the other smirked. "You seem to have had a bit of a rough day. Ya think I'm gonna let that slide?"  
Either one of them could have told you that dress pants wreaked unseemly hell on an erection. They'd both had to deal with it enough times that it seemed like clockwork to have the feeling of coarse, unrelenting tension relieved by a benevolent partner. Droog had become quite practiced in leaning to his right, so that the cold metal of Slick's arm wasn't a problem. He had to admit, the craftsmanship of the thing was something to be admired, but not right now. His mind was clouded over irretrievably with the wet hot taste of whiskey and cigarettes.  
In any other mundane story, one might say that Slick read his partners mind in pulling lube from his deck of cards, but it was never a necessity between the two. Their mannerisms had become so familliar to one another that Droog could have done the same if given an extra picosecond. Regardless, Slick pressed the bottle into Droog's hand and he pocketed it, the frigidity soon becoming warmth as the two bit into each other's mouths with frantic fervor. Just when Slick thought his tongue could find no new crevice in the depths of Droog's mouth, there was a soft click in his ear, and Droog's lips closed to form a smirk.  
The first finger was always a challenge. Slick had a tendency to catch Droog's lip between his teeth and bite down hard out of discomfort. Droog had become practiced in the art of giving the most eloquent twist to alleviate the discomfort and turn it to outright pain. The concrete feeling would cause Slick to loosen himself. Figures, Droog would think. The man who's taken twenty bullets to the vitals can't handle a finger in his ass. Of course, the tension would often ebb with the second finger, and subsequently the third. By the time Droog had finished, Slick was commonly threatening him with pronounced strings of expletives that if he didn't fuck him eventually, he was gonna shove Droog's cuestick so damn far up his ass that he'd knock his hat straight off the smug fucker's head.  
Hat? What hat? Droog smirked, tossing away his cap. The dominance sees no hat, dear Slick. He's busy pulling you apart, remember? With a sharp and calculated jab to Slick's prostate, the rugged man was cursing him out like a spanish sailor.  
Droog always did love the initial feeling of sliding in. Slick, on the other hand, thought it felt alien every single time. The two would hold each other with heavy breaths, hair matted and mussed before Slick would give a single metallic tap to Droog's shoulder to signal his readiness.  
When Droog began moving, there was a still silence as both breaths were held. The buzz of the overheating pool lamp, the soft sound of skin on skin, the whistle of two men's breaths being released into the dim air, these sounds became the sudden traffic of the ears of anyone who would listen. Gentle grunts and moans could sometimes be heard as the two tried to silence each other with their lips and tongues in a heated and frantic dance. Droog's belt would click ornerily against the pool table's oaken frame, and Slick's arm would grate against the thin metal lining.   
Slick knew all of Droog's cues. The way his eyes would fly open, trying to catch the last of the passionate reality, the tiny nasal inhale, the stutter of his hips, his free hand clutching the front of Slick's shirt in ecstasy as whiteness overcame him. Slick was often tumbling right after him, ruining the shirt of the day with thick stains that they knew from experience didn't wash out. He was glad he'd taken off his jacket this time.  
The two would lie still, heavy breaths alternating in a languid syncopation, before they cleaned up and fixed themselves accordingly. The only evidence of their tryst remained their hair, knotted and damp, their red lips, and of course, their untucked and irreparably ruined shirts.  
"So. I think I was right. You definitely needed a little bit a' help there." Droog smirked as he pulled his shirt off, button by button, and pulled a replacement from his deployed Brawlsoleum. "Lemme borrow a shirt, Droog, can't be bothered goin' to get another one. This was my backup. Other one's got some blood on it, can't be wearin' it around."  
Droog should his head. "I keep tellin' ya. Gotta keep multiple backups, all of ya. It's ridiculous." Slick growled. "Don't be an asshole, Droog, just gimme one."  
"An asshole? Slick, is your short term memory really that terrible? You're the asshole here."  
Droog grabbed his hat quickly before Slick managed to chase him from the room with a growl.  
The bluish hue of the bunker cast its somber gaze over everything in sight. Moonlight bled in through the curtains, giving the room a sort of strange ethereal feeling. A pile of weapons glinted off in the corner like a museum display, hardly touched but dangerously beautiful and deliberate. The only evidence of any man having set recent foot in the room was the nicely folded newspaper on the table, and the makeshift eight ball, last of the solids, lying quietly in the dim light of the hanging lamp.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend of mine. In return, he gave me some r4d johndave doodles. Felt kinda like a drug deal.


End file.
